


Silver

by Humbae



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Caretaking, Caring Jaskier | Dandelion, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Mushy nonsense, Poisoning, Whump, dimeritium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28195878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humbae/pseuds/Humbae
Summary: Written for the prompt "dimeritium" issued by ShyThrush.Geralt and Jaskier attend a feast. Someone with a grudge against witchers participates as well.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Silver

“It’ll be great, I can guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself. Or at least benefit from the feast. I am of course only assuming there will be a feast, but why wouldn’t there be, it is customary after all. Cousin Ferrant always respects traditions.”

Jaskier turned around in his saddle to look at Geralt. His current Roach was short-legged and fat, but the witcher refused to trade her for a steed more suited to his mobile lifestyle, hence he was constantly lagging behind Jaskier.

“If we ever get there, that is. Can you not hurry that beast a little bit? Or better yet, leave it by the side of the road and run.”

“Such a rush to fill your belly. Perhaps it’s your horse that’s getting the most exercise,” Geralt countered.

“You mock me, but my beautiful features are getting tragically angular. Besides, you haven’t had a proper meal in even longer than I have, so don’t try to claim you’re not looking forwards to the feast.”

Geralt mumbled something unintelligible. Jaskier reckoned he was better off not hearing what he said. They kept riding along the road cutting across a vast plain. There were some scraggly bushes with no leaves, and plenty of rocks, but nothing of particular interest breaking the monotone of brown. Jaskier was thoroughly bored, and fiendishly hungry. He’d had a good run earlier in the season and his coin purse was bulging, but since there was nothing to purchase, his stomach remained empty. His salvation had been running into Geralt three days prior, and he’d taken advantage of the witcher’s travel rations. Until they ran out of those as well. If the plains didn’t end soon, they’d have to entertain the notion of eating one of the horses. The black gelding Jaskier rode had the disposition of a randy stallion, but it looked beautiful. Would be a shame to feast upon it, especially since there would be an actual feast in the near future.

If Jaskier’s calculations were correct, his birthday would be in less than a week. They were headed towards Kerack where his cousin lived. As far as he knew, he had a position of moderate power. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that he’d be overjoyed to arrange a celebratory feast in Jaskier’s honour as soon as he made his presence known, and informed him of the impending occasion.

“We’ll get there tonight,” Geralt said. The sun was already on its slow descent, making Jaskier lick his lips in eager anticipation. It had been too long since he’d slept in a soft bed and enjoyed all the comforts of a city.

“This shall be the high point of the season, I swear!”

*****

It was already dark when they reached the gates. Geralt was only allowed to enter if he left his swords with the guards. After some arguing and much moping, he finally complied. As a result, he was in a foul mood when they walked the streets to find Ferrant’s abode.

“It’s a criminal atrocity to deprive a craftsman of his tools,” Geralt ranted, his hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Jaskier was sure he’d be punching the walls if not thus self-restrained.

“A foul coincidence that your tools happen to be murder weapons,” he said, against all common sense. Geralt glared at him, but didn’t reply. Jaskier raised a carefully sculpted brow. Geralt must’ve been even more exhausted than he let on if he failed to rise to such a low-hanging bait.

“Never fear, my friend, you are perfectly safe here. We shall find my cousin and finally get the treatment we so justly deserve. Wine, women, warm water. What else could you possibly want?”

“Weapons,” Geralt said. Jaskier did his best not to laugh at the petulant tone.

They turned a corner and spotted Ferrant’s house. It was modest in the context of mansions. Jaskier climbed up the stairs and knocked on the door, already disappointed that he had to degrade himself to such a mundane task. The moment he entered a city, he forgot the hardships of the road that he could well endure, and assumed the airs of one entitled to all the available luxuries. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more of an automatic performance that he slipped into when he had an audience, ready to entertain and earn his living at any moment.

“Ferrant, how lovely to see you! How many seasons have turned since we last saw each other?”

“It’s been three months. You came to nurse a broken heart by drinking my most expensive wine by the barrel.”

“Ah yes, I remember. And I offer you another chance to amaze us with your hospitality, for it is my birthday soon!”

Geralt and Ferrant looked at each other behind Jaskier’s back. They hadn’t met before, but they wore expressions of equal exasperation.

“So, in essence, you came to drink my wine again?”

“What a gracious offer! I would love to, yes! Come on Geralt, I told you my cousin wouldn’t turn us away.”

They entered the dining hall and sat down. Ferrant’s servants had already set the plates for two guests, and managed to conjure up enough food to fill them up. Jaskier got started with the wine, luring Geralt to join him as well. Even Ferrant’s irritation dissipated once he raised a few toasts with his cousin. The evening progressed in a comfortable atmosphere, disturbed only by the movements of the night servant, a middle-aged man who wouldn’t have seemed out of place at the royal palace.

“Darles, is the guest room ready?” Ferrant asked, slurring only a little bit.

“Yes, sir,” the servant replied. He stood by the door, back straight and face void of expression.

“My cousin is a pest, but his friend is decent enough. Did you notice he’s a witcher?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t sound impressed. Do you not like witchers?”

“Don’t even bother answering,” Geralt said. He stood up and collected his bard. Jaskier protested meekly, but didn’t struggle when Geralt tossed him over his shoulder. The witcher took a few side steps to keep his balance, to Jaskier’s great amusement. Darles led them to the guest room and disappeared through the servants’ exit.

As he descended the stairs to the kitchen, he heard laughter and revolting drunken singing until he closed the door behind him. The lock clicked, and he allowed his shoulders to slump. Serving his master was tolerable most of the time, sometimes even pleasant when they spent the evenings in companionable silence in the sitting room, but when he had pompous lords as guests, the quiet house was defiled by their vulgar manners. And tonight, on top of having to bear an usually loud ponce, he was also burdened by the presence of a witcher.

Darles took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Scrubbing the dishes wasn’t his job, but he found it relaxing, and he desperately needed something to calm his nerves. He’d never expected to run into a witcher again, certainly not in his house of employment, far from the wilderness and monsters as they were. He started heating water and allowed himself to sink into memories. It had been twenty years, but the pain still lingered, unfaded and undiminished. The faces of his wife and daughter appeared in front of him, as they always did when he loosened his control even slightly. But tonight, they weren’t smiling. Blood was running down her daughter’s face, coating her forehead and dripping off her nose. The rest of her wasn’t there. What they’d gotten back was just the head after all, severed neatly midway up the neck. His wife had lasted two hours after that. He still couldn’t understand how she’d managed to drown herself in a bucket, no taller than the one he was now holding in hands that had begun to shake, but she had accomplished it very effectively, leaving him alone to deal with the heartbreak.

Nothing could bring back his loved ones. Darles knew this. But he also knew who was responsible for their deaths. The gleaming eyes of the one who had promised to bring their daughter back alive, and had failed. He would never forget the empty gaze of the witcher who begged for his forgiveness, carrying the head of his daughter, their blood mixing together. It wasn’t this particular white-haired witcher, but that was irrelevant. They were all the same: emotionless monsters almost as foul as the ones they hunted. Perhaps even more so, since they offered false hope before they snatched it away.

Darles poured hot water into a basin half-filled with cold water. Satisfied that the temperature was just right, he started putting in filthy plates and pots and pans. He’d heard the troubadour yammer on about his birthday, and how he expected a feast. That meant the house would be filled with guests, each more flamboyant than the other. There would be no peace until the celebration was done. As he was scrubbing the crusty edge of a pan, Darles thought about his guarantee. He’d acquired it soon after the tragedy, as a means to ensure he’d never be in the position of helplessness again when facing a witcher. He’d never expected to use it, just having it had brought him comfort. And now he might finally get his money’s worth, considering how large the sum had been.

The pile of clean dishes grew as the night progressed. Darles struggled internally with his dilemma: the witcher visiting his master had done nothing to him personally, but surely it was his duty to prevent others from being hurt the way he had been. That he had no evidence of the numerous crimes he was sure the witcher was guilty of should play no part in his decision. But still, he hesitated. As much as he despised the monster hunters, he still couldn’t take the actions lightly. Harming others was not in his nature.

*****

“Yes! I suppose I can toast once more, it is for my health after all,” Jaskier said and raised his glass of wine. Everyone around the table copied his movement and muttered their well wishes. The nobleman who had initiated the toast sipped his own drink and started a long-winded story of how he and Jaskier had first met. Those who knew him had heard the story too many times already, and focussed instead on the feast. Ferrant’s servants had filled the table with hearty meat dishes and several varieties of roasted vegetables and cheeses.

Geralt was seated at the end of the table, with his face towards the wall. He would’ve preferred to sit on the other side, but the places had been determined by someone, and he had enough decorum to not forcibly change the fancy little place markers. There was a beef roast in front of him that looked like any slab of meat, but was a fine silverside cut, as he’d been informed by the servant placing the dishes. He didn’t care one toss about what it was called, he only thought it looked delicious and he wanted a piece or five. He rarely had the chance to eat as much as he wanted or even needed, and he planned to take advantage of the offerings. Jaskier’s acquaintances yammered on and on, preventing Geralt from digging into his food if he wanted to follow the rules of society. The others at the table were happily eating despite the toast still going on, but Geralt knew he’d be considered an uncivilised beast if he followed their example. He shouldn’t care about their meaningless opinions, but still he waited.

“And finally, I’d like to take us back twenty years, to a time when another story started. I was travelling on a hot summer’s day, and…”

Geralt tuned out the man speaking. His voice was a dreary monotone, droning on and on, despite no one showing interest. Even Jaskier was occasionally glancing at Geralt and lifting his eyebrows, wordlessly ridiculing the nobleman who was so impressed with his own voice. Geralt looked at the roast in front of him meaningfully, and glared at Jaskier. He needed to repeat the action twice before his friend caught on.

“Thank you, Klarent. I am most honoured by the kindness of your words. I do not deserve such verbal affluence showered upon my humble being. Now -- “ he emptied his glass and held it out for a refill, “let us show our appreciation for our venerated host, and partake in this glorious feast!”

There was short applause, followed by the clinking of silverware as everyone reached for the food as one. Geralt nodded his appreciation at Jaskier and reached for the roast in front of him. He picked up a healthy slice and surrounded it with potatoes, the closest side dish he could reach without asking anyone to pass him anything. The style of serving reminded him of the wedding celebration he and Jaskier had attended earlier in a harbour town far from the pretence of courts. Evidently it was in vogue to eat like peasants this year, the excitement of serving one’s own food titillating the nobles. Geralt cared nothing about fleeting fashions. He just wanted a full belly, regardless of how the food got there.

“Excuse me, mister monster-hunter,” a woman opposite and two seats over from him asked. She had a lovely smile, but completely dead eyes. Geralt had seen ghouls displaying more lust for life than she was.

“Yes?” he said, trying not to show how annoyed he was by the delay between him and his meal.

“Could you pass me the roast? It looks better than the tired old duck here.” She indicated the glazed bird sitting on a platter in front of her. Geralt was already reaching for the meat to pass it along when Ferrant’s servant appeared by his side, grabbing his wrist. With truly gargantuan effort, Geralt stopped himself from pulling his hand away and punching the man.

“Pardon sir, the table order is not to be interfered with. Our host has gone through much effort to perfect it.”

“Sorry,” Geralt said, and allowed his arm to twitch. The servant took the hint and removed his hand. The woman huffed and reached for her duck instead, ignoring Geralt and the servant.

Finally free of disturbances, Geralt cut his meat, careful not to extend too much strength and bend the flimsy silver knife he had been provided with. The meat was good, cooked slowly into soft consistency, although there appeared to be some tiny bone shards since he felt a subtle crunch as he chewed. He finished his first portion and waited for a bit before going for seconds. As the evening progressed, he demolished over half the roast by himself. The man sitting opposite him only ate eggs. He was regaled with the high principles and benefits of an egg-based diet, to the point where he considered ramming the silver knife through the man’s left nostril.

Jaskier was in fine form, joking and laughing and talking endlessly. The constant chatter was starting to give Geralt a headache. He’d been drenched in every fragrance imaginable throughout the evening, as the nobles seemed to be of the opinion that the further one could smell their perfume, the better. Geralt had been able to resist the olfactory assault, but as the hour grew later and the wine in his system more plentiful, the pounding in his head became harder to resist. Which was strange, since the scents seemed to be getting less potent.

“Geralt. Geralt!”

Geralt suddenly snapped to attention. Jaskier was looking at him with his brows scrunched, as if waiting for something. He realised that he had no idea what it was. He’d been keeping track of most of the conversations happening around him all evening, paying special attention to Jaskier in case he managed to get them in trouble yet again, but at some point he’d lost all threads simultaneously and now he had no idea what was happening.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, and everyone started laughing.

“I was just saying that I’m perfectly safe during our travels since you’re constantly vigilant of all dangers lurking around us,” Jaskier said. To the casual observer, his voice held annoyance, but Geralt heard the concern beneath. He blinked slowly and shook his head. He was fine and Jaskier should get back to his socialising. Jaskier nodded back at him, but his smile wasn’t quite as wide as before.

When the focus was off him, Geralt realised he was not alright. The pain in his head came in nauseating waves, making the entire room throb in time with his heartbeat. He wanted some fresh air, but he was genuinely concerned he might fall over if he stood up. When he felt his stomach turn, he realised he had to leave the room lest he wanted to embarrass Jaskier by making a spectacle of himself. He leaned his hands on the table and pushed his chair back, needing to pause for a moment when bright colours exploded across his field of vision. Jaskier was talking loudly in the background, drawing everyone’s attention. Geralt stood up and immediately turned around, walking as fast as he could to clear the room before his body caught up with him.

Outside the dining room door, Geralt slumped against the wall, holding one hand against his throbbing head and the other keeping his balance. His knees threatened to buckle, but he managed to pull himself upright. He couldn’t see anything through the sparkling multicoloured patterns, so he groped along the wall, hoping he’d reach a backdoor that would take him outside. Another twinge from his stomach made him hurry his faltering steps.

A small eternity later, Geralt managed to fumble his way through the servants’ entrance, and into fresh air. He was gasping for breath by the time he opened the door and stepped onto soft grass. A dark shape to his right appeared to be a bush. Geralt fell on his knees in front of it and surrendered to his body’s demands. When he felt steady enough to sit up again, he wiped his mouth and spat a few times. He tasted metal on his lips, not the coppery aroma of blood, but something else that was vaguely familiar. Thinking was too hard at the moment though, so he leaned away from the mess and lay down on the grass on his side. The world continued to spin although Geralt could feel that he was not moving. He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them in a vain attempt to keep his shaking body still. Sweat was gathering on his brow despite the chillness of the night.

The worst part was that Geralt couldn’t understand what was happening to him. He considered poison, but he would’ve smelled or tasted any added ingredients. As far as he could tell, the meat had been clean. There had been the bone shards, but that was not unusual in cheap cuts. And the wine had tasted fine, an expensive vintage, as was expected, one Geralt had never drunk before, but he could tell it held nothing that a wine shouldn’t include.

A nocturnal bird screeched nearby. Someone yelled at it, and the bird took flight. Geralt followed the sound for roughly three seconds before it faded from his senses. Which was too soon. He should’ve been able to track its path for miles, picturing the environment it flew through by the sound of the echo of its call. He’d only once before experienced such dampening of senses, when he’d been imprisoned and controlled by a dimeritium collar.

Suddenly it all clicked into place. The familiar metallic taste, the shards in the meat that most certainly would not have been of a cheap cut. With growing horror, Geralt realised that the hateful metal was inside him. Except he’d expelled most of it earlier. Nevertheless, he made himself sit up, lean over, and get rid of the rest until he was dry heaving. Utterly spent, he collapsed back on the grass, more worried than before, but unable to do anything. He didn’t know what effect consumed dimeritium would have. It touching his skin was devastating enough, he hoped none of it had stayed in his system, though the continuing symptoms suggested he was not so lucky.

Rolling over onto his other side, Geralt forced his eyes open and leaned his head back to see the house. Blurry lights shone through most windows. The party would still be going, keeping everyone busy. The culprit might still be inside too. Geralt wasn’t interested in their grudges or motives, he only wanted to know how much at worst had entered his body, and how pure the dimeritium had been. But he couldn’t get up. All strength had been drained from him, leaving him flat on the grass, shaking with the cold sweat drenching his skin, barely able to breathe. His head was also fuzzy and in more pain than he could ever remember enduring without an injury. The rest of his body was only weak, not pained. Small blessings. And entirely useless.

The lights in the windows started flickering and changing colours. When one stretched from one end of the building to the other, Geralt realised it wasn’t the light that was losing grip on reality, it was him. His chest felt heavy, moving it was an effort. He knew he should be worried about it, but he couldn’t follow chains of logic at the moment. He was cold, he hurt, he couldn’t give a single finger enough strength to move. The wet grass would be his final resting place, and he was entirely satisfied with that.

*****

Jaskier lowered another glass from his lips, the level of the wine inside unchanged. He’d drank plenty earlier, but as the evening progressed, he’d started only touching the liquid to his mouth. The toasts were getting shorter, and more vulgar. The main point in them seemed to be to praise the speaker, some of them forgetting to even mention Jaskier. As much as he’d revelled in the attention earlier, it was becoming tiresome now. None of these people were what Jaskier would call friends. He’d thought so before, but after travelling a few summers with Geralt, he’d learned what it truly meant to care about someone, to want to share one’s meagre possessions with them, to rely on another person to keep you alive. He trusted Geralt for that with no questions asked. He couldn’t say the same about a single other person in the room, including his cousin. As Jaskier allowed his gaze to wander, trying to bear another long-winded toast regarding someone else’s deluded impressions of grandeur, he realised he couldn’t see Geralt anywhere.

Jaskier didn’t know at which point of the night he’d lost track of his friend, but as he waited and Geralt didn’t reappear, he started to worry. A host of servants flitted about the room, replenishing the table at a steady pace, led by the man who had welcomed them on the first night. Jaskier signalled at him to come over, needing to wait only a moment while he unloaded his hands of the plates he’d been carrying.

“Sir?” the middle-aged man asked as he approached Jaskier.

“Did you see where my friend went?”

“The witcher, you mean?” the servant asked, a bit louder than Jaskier considered necessary.

“Geralt, yes.”

“I cannot say, good sir.”

“Very well,” Jaskier said. He thought he saw something off in the man’s face. He appeared perfectly expressionless, to the point of looking uncannily unaffected by anything around him, but Jaskier couldn’t shake the feeling of sensing dishonesty. He would’ve considered himself foolish and moved on, but the growing worry about Geralt made him not dismiss his instincts. As Geralt often said, one’s senses could pick up dangers faster than the mind could process them.

“Dismissed,” Jaskier said when the man hadn’t left. The servant gave a bow and turned around. Someone was clearing their throat loudly in an obvious effort to draw attention, more than likely preparing to give another inane toast, but Jaskier ignored it. He stood up and left his seat, mimicking drinking and pointing at his crotch with a sly smile as he did so. While moving, he realised that he legitimately did need to visit a privy. He didn’t know where the closest one was, so he opted to try different doors and see where that would get him. He’d meant to follow the servant, but he’d lost him even before he left the dining room.

Jaskier didn’t take any turns in fear of getting lost. He passed three locked doors before he found one in a darkened corner. Opening it made the crisp night air rush in his face, bringing cool relief from the stuffiness of the house. He stepped through and went straight to the nearest bush. As he was finishing his business, he looked around in the dim lighting. He couldn’t see much, mainly the silhouettes of trees, the bush he’d just fertilised, and a rock or other uneven shape on the ground. While he was outside, he decided he could take a moment to enjoy the silence and cool off. He made his way to the rock and leaned on it with his hand, intent to put his weight on it. When he felt the rock give, he quickly jumped back.

“In the name of small bees, what is that?” he asked out loud in surprise. Stepping closer, his surprise turned to shock.

“Geralt! Are you alright?”

There was no response. Jaskier squatted down and reached with his hand. Geralt was lying on his side, facing away from him. Jaskier tried his shoulder first, testing if there would be a reaction. Sometimes Geralt wasn’t immediately awake or alert if he’d been hurt, but could suddenly come to in a violent manner. The shoulder was warm, which was a good sign, meaning he was alive at least, but Jaskier could feel it tremble, which was less encouraging.

“Hey, can you hear me?” he asked. Still nothing. He shook the shoulder more vigorously, staying behind Geralt’s back where he couldn’t immediately reach him just in case. His precautions were in vain. Geralt remained inert, breathing steadily but too quickly.

“Starting to worry here. What happened to you?”

Jaskier lifted his left hand to Geralt’s head. After tapping his cheek gently, he started going over his skull, trying to feel if there were any bumps or dents or bleeding wounds. His fingers entangled in the long white locks, pulling occasionally when he was careless, yet still he didn’t receive any reactions.

Once he was done, Jaskier stepped over Geralt and approached him from the front. He could see no injuries that would explain the deep unconsciousness. While his eyes roamed over Geralt’s face, he realised there was a slight glimmer on his lips. He leaned closer, thinking the light had only tricked him, but further scrutiny confirmed that there were minuscule silvery flecks on Geralt’s lips. Utterly mystified, Jaskier shook him again, more urgently this time.

Finally, Geralt started to rouse. He grimaced and tried to curl up into an even tighter ball. Jaskier held his shoulder, not restricting the movement, but signalling that he was there.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. Sometimes Geralt’s senses could overwhelm him if he lost the vigorous grip he usually kept on them. This time, however, he gave no reaction. Jaskier increased his volume and repeated the question.

“Jask… er?” Geralt asked, panting slightly. His eyes were open, but something was off in them.

“What happened?” Jaskier asked, leaning closer to take a better look. Geralt didn’t meet his gaze.

“Dim… dimer…” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier caught his chin and turned his head gently towards him. His eyes looked normal, pupils wide in the darkness, as was to be expected. Except he was a witcher, he should’ve been able to expand them even further to improve his vision.

“Dimeritium!” Jaskier shouted, louder than he should’ve. Luckily their part of town was quiet and no one was passing them at the moment on the nearby street behind the fence.

“How did this happen? Where’s the shackle?” Jaskier asked at a more reasonable volume and started patting down Geralt’s wrists and ankles, not finding anything.

“Ate it,” Geralt said.

“What? Why?”

The glare Jaskier received was comfortingly familiar, even if diluted by the pain twisting Geralt’s features.

“Not important. Right, what do we do. Can you walk?”

Geralt nodded miserably. He’d walked with worse, alone, in much rougher circumstances. Jaskier knew that, but he still wasn’t convinced he’d get his friend mobile.

“Let’s go to our room. There’s no way Ferrant is responsible for this, one of the guests must’ve poisoned you. Once I have you secured, I’ll go talk to him. Up we go.”

Jaskier stood up, expecting Geralt to unfurl himself and follow, but when he only managed to get on his knees and promptly fall over, Jaskier positioned Geralt’s arm over his shoulder and pulled him up with him. Although they moved slowly, Geralt was panting with the exertion, and moaning softly under his breath. Jaskier didn’t ask what was hurting. It was clear from the careful way Geralt was moving that the answer was everything.

“Sure this is not too much?” Jaskier asked when they were upright and ready to head towards the door. Geralt was hanging off him limply, panting and sweating profusely.

“Go,” he said, accompanied by a violent shudder running through him. Jaskier went, noting that Geralt’s feet were dragging more than stepping. He closed the door behind them and started heading towards the staircase that would lead them to their room. They heard noise from the dining hall, but luckily no one came out while they crossed the atrium. At the bottom of the stairs, Jaskier took the liberty of making a decision for Geralt. He was already carrying most of his friend’s weight, in a very awkward position. He bent his legs a bit and reached down to slip his arm behind Geralt’s knees, scooping him up in one smooth movement. Geralt instinctively wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and gasped.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said as soothingly as he could. “We’re going up the stairs.”

“I could’ve… myself,” Geralt mumbled. He seemed to be fading again. His head was a comforting weight against Jaskier’s neck, although a bit too warm. He hadn’t stopped trembling either.

“Certainly, but I grew impatient. You know how hasty I can be. Just relax, you can prove how capable and strong you are when you’re feeling better. At least, I hope this will pass on its own. Do you know?”

Geralt nodded. Jaskier felt his hair tickle his exposed skin.

“Good. Hopefully it will be soon, I don’t think you could even pick up a knife right now, and someone here is specifically going after you if they knew to use dimeritium, and in a form you wouldn’t detect. Rather devious, I must admit. Utterly twisted and wrong, but not stupid.”

Jaskier reached the top of the stairs and took the necessary turns to find their shared room. Geralt had gone limp, but at least his breathing was sounding steadier. Jaskier opened their door and looked around the room, trying to see if anything felt off. Nothing stood out to him, so he entered and set Geralt down on the bed. He removed his boots and jacket, and pulled a thick patchwork quilt on him. Geralt rolled over and snuggled under the cover, not waking up. Jaskier checked that the windows were properly closed, and headed back downstairs to talk to his cousin.

*****

The travelling troubadour passed Darles in the hallway without paying any attention to him. Darles could’ve bet money that he didn’t even know his name, despite having heard it several times during their visit. He represented the worst kind of nobles, the ones who genuinely believed themselves above mere servants, as if they were better humans. And this one chose to spend his time trailing after a witcher as well, making him utterly unworthy in Darles’ eyes.

He stopped outside the guest room and waited. No one moved in the hallway, and he couldn’t hear anything from inside. The witcher hadn’t looked well when Darles had seen them pass by, but he knew how fast the mutants could heal. His goal wasn’t to kill him anyway, as fair as it would’ve been. His daughter had certainly received no justice. Her precious life, cut shorter than it should’ve been. He would never know what her future might’ve held, how far she might’ve reached. And it was all thanks to the arrogant incompetence of witchers.

Darles opened the door, his hand shaking with silent fury. The room was dark, but he knew where each piece of furniture was, navigating easily across the space. He approached the bed, eliciting no response from the man lying on it. His white hair was tangled in sweat-soaked knots, and he was so pale his skin appeared translucent. Darles shook his head in disgust. This creature was the cause for all his sorrows. And he was helpless. It would’ve been too easy to grab the spare pillow and suffocate him out of existence.

“Witcher,” he said, not raising his voice. The man on the bed twitched.

“Your kind has a lot to answer for. I’m not stupid, I know you personally didn’t harm my family, but what you stand for is evil of the vilest nature.”

Geralt shifted on the bed, grunting softly. Darles stepped closer.

“You bring false hope. You promise to solve our immediate problems, yet you do not deliver. Your words are as empty as your eyes. There is no life there. Like a beast, you do what’s in your nature, and nothing more. You do not care about us humans. Our petty bonds mean nothing to you. Our love, it’s less than a whisper to you, something carried away by the wind, as inconsequential as the dawn. What’s another day to you in your endless cycle of tomorrows? You simply do not care.”

“You’re wrong,” a strong voice said behind Darles. He whipped around, coming face to face with the travelling bard. His expression was unreadable.

“He cares. More than you can possibly comprehend. Do you not understand that his long life span -- not endless -- is entirely dedicated to eradicating this world of dangers? That is his cause, his mission, his reason for existing. How do you think each failure feels like in that context? I don’t know what happened to you, but when Geralt is on a hunt, his entire being is focussed on nothing but the hunt. The people involved are part of it. He would give his own life if that meant ensuring the safety of those he has sworn to protect. But it’s not possible every time.”

The bard walked past Darles and sat down on the bed. He pulled the blanket gently higher, causing the witcher to unconsciously snuggle deeper in. The gentleness with which he brushed a lock of hair off his forehead made Darles nervous. He’d assumed the two were barely more than reluctant travelling companions. But the intimacy of the caring gesture suggested their friendship ran deep.

“Whoever you lost, I’m sure your sorrow is unimaginably deep. But it was not a loss only for you. Every mission is personal for a witcher. It would be easier if they were the heartless, emotionless beings myth would have us believe. But no, they feel each failure, each death they couldn’t prevent as another chip away from that which keeps them going. For if the reason to go through the hardship of protecting others at every cost diminishes, if you realise you cannot save everyone, what then? Have you ever seen an old witcher?”

Darles met the bard’s gaze, not allowing his face to show any emotion. He shook his head in response.

“Because the job kills them. On the surface, it’s the claw of a monster, or the tooth of a beast. Certainly they slow down eventually, when age robs them of their agility or their accumulated injuries overwhelm them. But witchers are intelligent. They know their limits, even with altered capability. What they cannot prevent, cannot even understand, is the toll of all their failures. You say one life means nothing to them? So wrong. The loss of one life is a weight they will always carry. The grief that loss leaves behind, all the other lives affected by their inability to complete their mission is a little bit more weight. Eventually, inevitably, that weight becomes too much to carry. That’s when a witcher makes the final error, the one he cannot recover from.”

The bard fell silent. He looked at Darles, eyes mostly hidden by the shadows. It was either silent rage or disappointed sadness shining in them.

“You can spin fancy words, I concede that, but it changes nothing. My daughter and wife are dead, and nothing can bring them back,” Darles said.

“That is precisely my point. You are not enemies here. The loss was regrettable, truly, but clinging to hatred and looking for someone to take the blame will only make the weight of it heavier. If Geralt could hear you, he would certainly shoulder all of it, without defending himself, but that would not ease the burden from you at all. You would only continue to hate him, to feed the emotion again and again when you could choose to let it fade. As you said, nothing will bring your family back. But do you want their memory to be tainted by contempt, or do you wish to remember the joy they brought to your life? You can only move on if you let go of the past.”

Darles said nothing. He should’ve dismissed the bard’s words as empty noise, an attempt to distract him, but his mind clung to them. Something there made sense, and that terrified him. It was his duty as a father to bring justice to his daughter. To let the murderer walk free seemed like taking the easy way out, to escape responsibility. Even knowing that this particular witcher had done nothing.

“If you leave us be, Ferrant doesn’t need to know about any of this,” Jaskier said. Darles looked at him. So the bard had figured it out.

“I’ll tell him Geralt over-indulged on the wine and leave it at that. If you promise to at least think about what I said, and not bother us anymore.”

“And you? How will you make me pay?”

“I won’t. I only ask that you consider my words with care.”

“You’ll let me go free with no challenge?” Darles asked. A servant poisoning his master’s guest was a serious offence. He would not only lose his job, he would never work in any household again if even the hint of a rumour of what had occurred escaped to public awareness.

“I see no other way that this could end well. If Geralt finds out why you fed him the dimeritium, he will not demand a punishment for you. On the contrary, he will shovel the rest of it down if you ask him to. But Ferrant will not be pleased, and your life will -- in essence -- be over. I don’t want that hanging over my head. And you might again feel the burden of vengeance falling upon you. I’d rather wipe the table clean and set a new plate on it.”

Darles remained suspicious. No one could be that forgiving when his friend had been assaulted. He was still trying to decide what to do when the witcher suddenly gasped and sat up. The bard turned to him, holding his trembling shoulder.

“Easy. You’re under the effects of dimeritium, that’s why the world feels wrong. Are you with me?”

The witcher nodded and looked at his friend. Darles stole a glance, feeling like an intruder witnessing the tenderness between the two. It was not unlike how he had comforted his daughter when she was ill. As strange as it was, it seemed like the bard and the witcher were a family. There was no other way to explain the evident connection between them. The bard supported the witcher, and the witcher smiled at him. Give and take. An emotionless monster wouldn’t have cared about showing his appreciation to the person looking after his physical needs. Gratitude was not something beasts recognised.

“If that is all, I shall take my leave,” Darles said, raising his eyebrows in question. The troubadour looked at him in the eyes, radiating warmth.

“My friend is feeling better,” he said. “I hope you’ll consider what I said, and feel better as well. Life is too short to dampen with hatred. Do you not agree?”

“Very well, sir.”

Darles closed the door behind him. He was still on duty, but he needed a moment to reflect on what had just happened. The thoughts in his head were confusing: emotions and reason, logic and hurt, pain and relief, they all fought for dominance. He needed solitude to sort it all out.

*****

“You _are_ feeling better, right?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded slowly.

“Think it’s starting to pass. Still off though. Can’t guarantee success if the attacker takes a more direct route.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It was all an honest mistake. The cook had a non-functional decorative pepper grinder that happened to be made of dimeritium, and an apprentice thought the silverside roast needed actual silver in it and ground some up. Can you believe such ignorance?”

“I cannot. This had to have been deliberate.”

“No, Geralt. There was no malice here. Trust me.” Jaskier held Geralt’s shoulders and turned him so they were face to face. “Everything is alright now.”

“You’re acting weird,” Geralt said, but didn’t push the matter further. He lay back down after Jaskier released him and closed his eyes. Jaskier sat against the headboard next to him, allowing Geralt to lean his head against his thigh.

“Do you keep track,” Jaskier started, and stopped. After the silence stretched, Geralt opened his eyes and looked up at him through a lock of hair that had fallen on his face.

“Of what?”

“Of how many lives you’ve failed to save?”

“No. But I know anyway.” Geralt rolled over, turning away from Jaskier. The coldness of the room immediately set in once the warm weight was gone. Jaskier slipped under the covers and lay down next to Geralt, hugging him from behind.

“You know they aren’t your fault, right? I know you always do your absolute best to protect others, often beyond what is sensible. You recognise that too, right?”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, but Jaskier wasn’t convinced. He tightened his hold around Geralt’s chest, pressing into his back. He could feel too many ribs, but the skin around them was pleasantly warm, not feverishly hot. And the rise and fall against him was steady, not the frantic panting from before.

“Bearing grudges is tiresome work. I never really realised how much so before,” Jaskier said. His face was pressed into Geralt’s hair. The wine from earlier in the evening was starting to make him sleepy, now that the excitement was over and he could relax.

“Before what?” Geralt asked. He sounded half-asleep already.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“What really happened tonight?” Geralt asked. Jaskier felt him tensing up.

“I learned a lesson in forgiveness. There’s no further danger, I promise. Can you accept that and let it go?”

“I trust you,” Geralt said. His shoulders released the tension that had been building in them and he fully slackened. Moments later, his breathing slowed to the regular rhythm of sleep.

Jaskier lay awake for longer. Their exchange had sounded simple, but the weight of it was settling on him. For someone like Geralt, who relied on no one but himself in order to survive, who had rarely received anything but hatred and fear-fuelled anger from others, to surrender his immediate wellbeing to hands other than his own was monumental. Jaskier smiled. He understood the depth of trust Geralt placed on him, and he embraced it. He had been furious enough to want to strangle the man who had poisoned his friend, but he’d also seen what bitterness had done to him. Geralt deserved better than a companion who carried all the hate they encountered within him, spreading misery around wherever he went. No, he would be the song that lifted Geralt up when he was down, the notes of joy to remind him that life wasn’t grey, the steady beat of a loyal heart.

Jaskier drifted off into sleep, hands still firmly clasped around Geralt’s chest, feeling comfortable and secure. The pale light of the moon repelled all shadows, coating them in its silver embrace. The bard and the witcher slept on.

*****


End file.
